


The Creature of London

by hampshire_eatonbeck_the_third



Series: The Creature of London [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, General Audiences - Freeform, M/M, alien monsters, also female doctor, and i wrote it on a whim, but i obvs don't claim the characters as my own naturally lololololol, but maybe i should do more research, gonna mash sherlock and doctor who universes together wooooo, her role has to mean something to the plot, i did try to edit it, i'm planning to make it a continuous thing, it's probably really really shit, lestrade baaaaabe, like a short series, like i don't want her to just be in then out and then never heard of again, maybe pre mary but i haven't decided where her role would be in this, maybe slightly out of character??, no one knows what unit is, nothing nsfw dw, oc but kinda as it is the doctor but not a canon regeneration, other oc will appear, same with master, sherlock doctor who crossover, sherlock tries to be funny, this would probably be the first arc, woooo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:44:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5995441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hampshire_eatonbeck_the_third/pseuds/hampshire_eatonbeck_the_third
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's somebody in the fridge.</p><p>No, not the head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. there's somebody in the fridge

He groaned internally.

"Why."

Slowly, giving the head in the pickle jar one last uncertain look, he closed the door.

When John looked back up, Sherlock Holmes was fussing with a strawberry yoghurt - as he had been doing - that was bubbling in a pot over a lit Bunsen burner. John blinked in surprise. That burner had appeared out of nowhere.

"Its sudden appearance is like some dark omen ..." he told himself. Dread tugged at his gut. He asked, "I thought you were just hungry?"

"For knowledge!"

Sherlock glanced up with his eyes twinkling and a stupid grin slapped on his face. The enthusiasm dashed away as quickly as it appeared. There was a momentary silence. The yoghurt popped.

The detective straightened up. "That was a joke."

John closed his eyes. Maybe if he wished hard enough, Sherlock would disappear.

"I know, Sherlock," he sighed irritably. He went to grab his coat from the armchair. He rushed past Sherlock; the sooner he could leave the flat, the better.

"Where are you going?"

The detective pursued John with a quick pace. He was almost catching up. John marched faster, putting on his sleeves.

"I'm getting breakfast somewhere else."

"What kind of breakfast?"

"I don't know," he quipped. John fiddled with his buttons. "Maybe an English. Maybe a pot of tea."

Right before John slammed the door in Sherlock's face, the detective stopped it short with a slip of his foot. The door thudded against his shoe. He winced. His bony face squeezed through the gap. His cheekbones almost sliced the mahogany.

He cried, "John!"

The urgency in his voice set off an instinct of alarm in John: urgency plus Sherlock equalled something bad. Like one of his experiments had gone wrong. He was expecting the bang of the yoghurt exploding over the fire any second now.

"What is it?"

"How does Moses make his tea?"

"No!"

John slammed the door so hard on Sherlock's foot that the detective retreated with a howl of pain. Sherlock had disappeared behind the door; but he would not be defeated.

As John Watson began to jog down the stairs to leave 221B Baker Street, Sherlock muffled a yell:

"He-brews it!"

The last thing that John heard as he passed through the door to enter London was another dint from Sherlock:

"John? B-Because he-brews and He-!"

Perhaps Sherlock took the memo when he heard the front door bang shut.

No matter how cool and clear the air of London looked, John could smell a dusty, murky stench from the fumes of cars and buses. He could hear the banging and the hooting and the ringing yell of the city's people that destroyed any romantic, picturesque essence that tourists enamoured themselves with in their guides. His belly grumbled as John wondered of where to go. Perhaps the artisan bakery, with their spiced rolls. Maybe the parlour, where he could treat himself to pistachio ice cream because God knows what Sherlock had done with it. Or even something of a brunch, with a chip sandwich from Billy's Plaice. Or perhaps -

His back pocket vibrated. John slipped out his phone. A text. From Sherlock.

John stopped. Begrudgingly, he undid his lock screen and hesitantly tapped the text app.

"'I'd tell you a chemistry joke'," he read under his breath, "'but I know I wouldn't get a reaction.'"

He actually found himself chuckling.

"Okay, I'll give you that one," he said, smiling warmly. Suddenly, his phone vibrated again. Another text from Sherlock.

"'Understand? Because you don't laugh at my jokes.' Because most of them are terrible, Sherlock." Another: "'I especially like that one, because I'm doing some cam it try right now.' Please don't cause a -" And another: "'Also the yoghurt exploded.'"

His belly was eating itself, but John wheeled right around and marched straight back to 221B.

As he got to the door, after minutes without a single text from Sherlock, which made tension run throughout his body, his phone vibrated once more.

John could implode. He had a sudden vision of Sherlock knocking the burner over. "Let me guess! The flat is on fire?"

_There's somebody in the fridge._

He almost burst with anger. He just wanted to storm upstairs, smash through the door and proclaim that of course that there was a damn thing in the fridge because there was a damn head in a damn pickled damn jar.

But, with great bitterness, John decided to say it in a message. Maybe there was some chance in Hell that he did not have to go back to the flat even now, and that with a text from Sherlock saying that there was nothing to worry about, he did not have to waste energy walking up those stairs and opening the door and cleaning the flat, and that he could go get a well-deserved breakfast in a quaint little area and pretend everything does not exist.

_Yes, I have seen the head._

A minute's pause. His shoe tapped the ground.

Sherlock answered:

_Severed heads do not say words._

John stared.

He stupidly text back: _What kind of words?_

Another minute's pause. John thought he was in a dream. Maybe it was just best to leave the place now and go eat breakfast. Maybe once he came back, this talk of somebody in the fridge would be over. And his stomach would be full. And the kitchen would be cleaned.

_'Ow.'_

John frowned and rolled his eyes. Any frustration he felt was gone. Now, he only felt tired.

_Stay there._

As he ambled in and fixed the lock, Mrs. Hudson moved as swift as a hurricane out of her flat. "John! What's going on up there? I smell burning!"

"Yoghurt mishap," he put shortly, and fled upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson briskly and worriedly followed.

A pink goo had splattered over half of the kitchen. There was a stench of burning that made Mrs. Hudson fret even harder. They found Sherlock gazing at the fridge in disbelief. He kept his back to the wall on the opposite side to the room of it. His expression was a mix of curiosity, excitement, and hesitation. When he snapped his eyes on the two, he started bouncing around with nervous energy.

He shouted with a wild grin, "Somebody's in the fridge! Somebody's in the fridge!" The grin dropped into a shadow. "But _how_?"

Like a dog, he sniffed around the fridge. He tried to budge it away from the wall.

"John! John, help me! John!"

Mrs. Hudson fidgeted with her cardigan. With concern, her big sad eyes watched Sherlock struggling with the appliance. "What's he jabbering on about it?"

"He's hearing voices, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, dear ..."

"John!"

"Do you think they'll send him to - well, you know?"

John shrugged.

"John!"

"I would not protest it."

Out of nowhere, Sherlock stopped wrestling with the fridge. He almost catapulted himself towards Mrs. Hudson and John. His trail blew smoke.

Nose-to-nose with John, who could feel his hot breath, Sherlock growled, "Quiet! Can - you - hear - _her_?"

John studied Sherlock very closely. His mouth opened and closed a few times. He was hesitant to say her name.

Irene Adler.

"Sherlock," he finally murmured, "are you all right? Did - did you sleep well?"

Sherlock fumed. "Sleep -!"

Someone in the fridge screamed.

Sherlock heard it. Mrs. Hudson heard it. John heard it.

Sherlock laughed at their faces. He proclaimed, "Aha!" and sped over to the appliance. He bent down and placed his ear against the door.

"I can hear her more clearly ... She's ... she's getting closer ..." John frowned. "Something else is in there ..." His eyes went wide. "John, get the -!"

Before he could finish his order, he was thrown backwards. Someone burst out from behind the fridge door. The door smacked against the wall. The woman rolled over herself, making an "ooft!" sound. She was covered in dirt and scratches. Recovering quickly from the tumble, she shot back up. A shrill and venomous noise of a beast ripped through the flat. Mrs. Hudson gasped. John covered his ears. The woman flew back to the fridge. Acid spat out of it. Sherlock and the woman ducked out of the way of it. Holes burned through on the floor and sides. She threw herself against the door, slamming it shut and forcing her entire body weight to keep it that way. Veins bulged from her forehead from intense pressure.

Her efforts were not enough. The door banged against her and she was cast away. The woman squirmed for a moment on the floor in pain. Stunned, nobody tried to help her. The woman pushed herself against the door again. It battled with her, thrusting outwards and banging close again and again. Something else on the other side was trying to get out. Sweat poured down her.

John did think of going to help her - but his feet were rooted. Fear froze him - and the question - what can he do? This woman had appeared from nowhere. This thing with a wretched scream had appeared from nowhere.

Surging new-found and immense strength out of nowhere, the woman with a great battle-cry retrieved her body away from the fridge. She almost tumbled from the momentum. For a second, the beast thought that it could get through. The door forced open ajar for a second. From where Sherlock stood, with the best angle out of the three, the whiteness that washed over his face told John that he had spotted something terrible. The woman smashed her body against the fridge. As the door slammed shut, the fridge violently shook. The beast screamed. But it's screams grew fainter, and fainter, and fainter, until they died.

The woman was drenched in sweat and her skin was red with exhaustion. Nevertheless, she found the strength to stand up. She dusted herself off. Then realised where she was.

The woman weighed all three of them up in turn. There was a brief moment of tension in the air. In thought, the woman stared them down. Sherlock was struck with intense interest. John was dumbfounded, and still overcoming his fear. Mrs. Hudson tried to get herself together.

"A c-cup of t-tea ... dear?"

The woman stared. She gave a shrug. "Well, if you're offerin'."

Spying the armchair, she strut past them all and collapsed in it. Sherlock's interested was instantly overcome with sudden shock.

"That's my seat!"

She shrugged again. "Get another one."

Mrs. Hudson was about to leave and prepare a few cups. "Sugar, dear?"

"If you're offerin'." Then she sat up straight. "Oh! Could you prepare another one? My friend's about to pop over."

"Friend?" stuttered John. He was surprised his own shock allowed him to speak. "When?"

She shrugged a third time. "Soon."

Then, a second woman crashed through the window.

She gave a hoot. Then her leg got tangled in the curtains. Then she tripped.

The Fridge-Woman groaned at the thought of leaving the chair, but stood up anyway and went to help her.

"You're bleedin'," she told her.

"Golly!" The Window-Woman tentatively touched her forehead. Her eyes widened slightly at the blood on her fingers and then showed her friend. "Do you think I might regenerate?"

John blinked. _Regenerate?_ he mouthed to Mrs. Hudson with a frown. She was staring at the women as if they were ghosts. Sherlock was anally inspecting his chair for any sabotage.

"Give over, you wimp!" she shot back.

The Window-Woman wiped her fingers clean with her jeans. She did not seem to notice the residents of 221 Baker Street, despite having crashed through the window and left a smattering of blood and a swamp of broken glass on the floor.

"Did you get the thing, anyway?" said she.

The Fridge-Woman patted her jacket-pocket. "I did. Thanks for waitin' up for me by the way." There was an air of sarcasm in her voice. "I had to leave the city another way."

"Boo-hoo!" shot back the Window-Woman.

Before they could continue, Sherlock broke out: "You wrecked the pillow!"

The Fridge-Woman looked over. "It looks fine."

Truly, it looked undamaged in all of its treasured silk glory.

"Your behind distorted it!" he grumbled.

"Sherlock!" snapped John. "Of all the things to be worried about - not the glass, not the yoghurt, not the - the fridge ordeal!"

Mrs. Hudson looked over to the Window-Woman. She tried to put on a brave face. But the poor woman was trembling all over.

"Um, w-would you care for some tea too?"

The Window-Woman brightened up. "Tea would be lovely!" She went over and clasped Mrs. Hudson's hands. Mrs. Hudson made a noise as if the woman's hands were ice-cold. "You're so cute and old!"

"Old?"

"And cute."

"Oh my!"

The Window-Woman next rounded on John. She was at least half-a-foot taller than him. Tall enough to give his head a pat and his hair a pet. "You're so small!" Her eyes sped to Sherlock and targeted his hair. She gasped and eagerly strode over to him. She rubbed his black hair and twisted his curls around her fingers. Sherlock could only awkwardly look at nothing, his face unsure. "Your hair is lovely!"

"I use conditioner."

"I can tell."

The Fridge-Woman cleared her throat. The Window-Woman dropped her hand and turned to her.

"We should introduce ourselves, don't you think?"

John straightened up. "Yes, please."

Turning to Sherlock, the Window-Woman's hand crept up slowly towards his hair. He let it happen.

The Fridge-Woman had a devilish gleam in her eye. She put her hands on her hips.

"I," she declared, "am the Master."

The Window-Woman seemed too interested in Sherlock's locks to look back at them all. 

She only said, "I am the Doctor. And in time you will know me."


	2. it swallowed the ground whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is not happy with this morning call. Features original character.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter until maybe later this week

_8:55am._

Greg Lestrade looked into the bottom of the sink-hole. Police tape surrounded the scene. He mulled over his morning bagel and coffee. It was too early in the day. Far too early.

Behind him, a member of his team was giving the witness their interview, which he was overhearing.

“… so you say it flashed, sir?” asked PC Calloway.

“Yes! Stars! Twinkling stars were in it! I had never seen anything like it!”

“And it,” Lestrade could hear her flipping the paper of her notepad over, “… replaced the ground … over there?”

“Swallowed it whole! Made that big, huge gap right there!”

Calloway paused. “I see.”

Over and over, the witness kept repeating the same thing: the big black hole with twinkling lights, the gushing of the wind, the swallowing of the ground … Ultimately, Calloway ushered the witness on back to the shock unit. Lestrade rolled his eyes at the idea. They were handing out blankets to anyone who looked the least bit disturbed these days.

Calloway approached his side to take a long look at the sink-hole.

She whistled. “That’s pretty deep.”

“The council will get on it,” he replied, his resentful stare fixated on the dark depths. “If it were not for the witness telling bizarre stories,” he grumbled in his mind, “we wouldn’t be out here. Since when was a sink-hole appearing a crime scene?” Lestrade frowned and shook his head. He closed his eyes, dreaming of his bed.

“Would he be needed at all?” Calloway asked.

Lestrade choked. He sputtered at his coffee. The idea of Sherlock coming in shook him to the core with panic. He had to hurriedly check around just then to make sure the snoop had not sneaked in. Thankfully, the area was safe. Calloway looked beyond dazzled at the idea, on the other hand, eager to meet Mr. Celebrity.

“Not with this. Thank God,” he added. Her inspired eyes deflated and she withdrew to her other duties.

Lestrade finished his bagel, and his coffee soon after. Today was going to be slow.


	3. your search did not match any results

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a universe in which U.N.I.T. is as untraceable as the M.I.B. 
> 
> Also, really loving writing Mrs. Hudson atm, not gonna lie

Sherlock kept a ram's skull on the bookshelf. The one who called herself The Doctor picked it up, held it aloft, and studied it for a moment. She grimaced and dropped it. The bone fractured. Sherlock shrieked.

“Nice digs you have here,” she observed. She passed from point-to-point in the room, her attention always caught every second by something else. Occasionally, when she went by a person, she would touch their hair.

With an amount of passive-aggressiveness underneath her words so dense that she could bash The Doctor’s brains out with it, Mrs. Hudson politely quipped: “I’m glad you find the flat so interesting, dear, but people don’t like it when you keep rubbing your hands in their hair like that!”

The Doctor stopped. Her friend, The Master – John cringed every time he thought of these names, most of all ‘Master’ – watched in silence. She looked Far East Asian, with long black hair and a full fringe with a long face.

“But hair is really cool though!” The Doctor hurried towards Mrs. Hudson and started balling up her hair. It was a ginger afro. She scrunched it up and played with her coils for a moment. She pulled them up, down, and side-to-side. Her brown hands unclasped her hair and shook with excitement. “See! Ginger! This regeneration’s so great. Not four – five … ?” She looked over to The Master. The Master shrugged. “Five days old and I’m loving it already. I mean - I’m kind of tall too – would have preferred a shorter form - but ...“

As she nattered on to Mrs. Hudson, bragging about her arms, her eyes, her toenails, John scrunched his face into a frown. He could not makes heads or tails of the situation. The only conclusion he could come to was the fact that the women were mad and vandalised property. He thought of calling Lestrade – although he might not be too keen to deal with anything even indirectly related to Sherlock at nine o’clock in the morning. John, for the moment, decided to spare Lestrade that torture and agony.

After a few moments, he zoned back in. Her afro eagerly bobbed up and down and left to right with her head. Mrs. Hudson seemed mildly frightened. The Master had begun investigating around and dangerously picking up sacred objects with Sherlock nervously and curiously stalking her. He had had his eyes and interest focused on her the most throughout the whole time The Master and The Doctor had been here. After all, it was _she_ who was the woman who came out of the fridge.

The thought of the fridge made his stomach groan.

Mrs. Hudson dove on that distraction. “Sherlock! John! You must be hungry!”

“Oh no, Mrs. Hudson, I couldn’t trouble you …”

“ _John_!” she scolded. Out of fear for his life, John began shuffling after Mrs. Hudson as she escaped women.

John glanced back.“Sherlock?” 

Even Mrs. Hudson stopped.

Sherlock and The Master were before the fireplace, staring each other down.

“How did you get in the fridge?” he threateningly asked.

With cool, grey eyes, The Master glared at him with suspicion. The two were as still as statues. They looked like a pair: both had a demeanour that embellished intellectual superiority and a face that read a warning to whoever came at them. Even down to their dark hair and pointed cheekbones, they were alike.

Then, after a long pause that commanded all eyes on her, she answered, “It is no business of yours.”

John was both struck with awe and gratitude: hopefully Sherlock would slide back into retreat, like a wounded animal. However, he understood the curiosity that he held. Two women had broken into the flat, without explanation, in extraordinary and frightful circumstances. So far, they had only brought chaos in their midst. In his mind, John demanded to know too. There were so many questions. What map? Why were they called their names? Where did they come from? Why were they here?

“Master,” The Doctor told her, “we have nothing to hide from the people of London.” Without waiting for a reply, she stretched out her hand and ordered, “Give me the map.”

The Master dug her hand inside her pocket. She wore a coat akin to Sherlock’s, which made the similarities even more remarkable. The idea of two Sherlocks made him nauseous, though. The Master took out many assorted things: a dozen paper-clips, two dirtied napkins, five fresh ones, a hotel from the Monopoly game, a single key, an empty sack - and a cat. John stared. He had to take multiple looks. This is what a lack of food does, he told himself; it melts the brain and makes a person hallucinate. But, no, the cat was real. It purred and waited for the Master. The Doctor pet it. At last, the Master pulled out something that the Doctor zoomed in on.

With grasping hands, she stole a brass, heavy-looking globe from the Master’s hands. It was just smaller than a football. How it fit in her pocket with the rest of the stuff, John would never be able to know and – frankly – he did not want to know. The cat fried his brain enough. He never heard a thing from it while it resided in her coat-pocket.

The Doctor, her eyes on fire with excitement, began to casually toss the globe between her hands. The Master openly became tense.

“Don’t play around with it! U.N.I.T. will want it safe.”

“It’ll be just fine,” said the Doctor, spinning it around on her finger like a basketball.

The globe’s surface was perfectly flat, allowing this to happen. Plain, with thin-plating, John swore he could hear a soft whirring sound from it. 

“What sort of map is that?” he asked. 

The Doctor caught the globe. Her eyes snapped onto John.

Pausing long, she stared intensely. “Of London.” She sighed. Softly, she touched her hair in thought. “Do you know what wormholes are?”

Sherlock looked up. “Passages through space and time that provide short-cuts for anyone travelling through the universe,” he said. Mrs. Hudson gasped with awe. “In theory.”

“But in practice –“ the Doctor began to say.

Sherlock laughed. “Good joke!" His tone dropped. "But always in theory.”

The Doctor looked at him.

She shook her head and gave her a tut. “Oh, you innocent child …”

Sherlock frowned.

She went on, “Wormholes –“

“Doctor,” said the Master, tapping on her pocket-watch. “We have to head off now.”

“Too right!” In turn, she approached Sherlock, John and Mrs. Hudson and petted their hairs one last time. “Bye-bye!”

All the while the Master collected all of the bits-and-bobs (and the cat) that lived in her pocket. It was a hefty ginger Tom-cat, to whom she murmured, “C’mon, Tom …” He meowed indignantly as she lowered him into her pocket. When the cat was placed inside it, his size nor weight showed any visible pressure on her coat. John blinked. It struck him wonder. He wished now that he could have a look at her pocket, and he could see Sherlock itching to as well.

The Doctor gave one look behind her shoulder. She paused. Then she waved. Behind the Master, she exited the flat.

Their abnormal entrance had been completely juxtaposed by their normalised, quiet, quick departure.

Not even ten seconds has passed after they left that Sherlock set himself to work.

“John!” he barked. “Find out what U.N.I.T. is!”

He leapt into action and onto his laptop that sat on a desk before the window. “Mrs. Hudson – tea!”

“Please!”

“… _Please_.”

John brought up Google on his phone. He could only assume that what the two women were talking about was something that a simple search could answer.

Mrs. Hudson passed him on her way out.

She muttered, “She doesn’t really have a cat in her pocket, right? She must be a magician.”

John was about to say, “Stranger things had happened,” but Sherlock beat him.

“Of course!” he snapped. She jumped. John for a moment thought he had discovered something – but then he realised, it was towards Mrs. Hudson.

“You can be so rude sometimes!” she scolded, and left.

John sighed and shook his head. He refocused back on his phone.

_Your search - U.N.I.T. - did not match any results._


	4. and you will know her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very short transitioning chapter because i need bed

Lestrade checked his phone.

_9:14am._

He wondered if he could sneak a turn on Tetris.

The crew was wrapping up at the sink-hole. Tape was being rolled up. Fences being taken down. Witnesses' contact details being recorded. The air, once cool, was getting slightly warmer. He did not have to rely on burying his hands in his pockets any more. Calloway was sitting on a bench by the side of the road, eating a breakfast sandwich and feeding the pigeons.

Suddenly, he heard an American.

"Hey."

Lestrade looked up.

A man taller than him with dark, neatly-cut hair and a long coat had appeared. As if out of nowhere. As quiet as a mouse.

"What's this here?" he inquired.

Lestrade slipped his phone back into his pocket. "Move along, not much to see her, sir."

"You know," said the man, "I was talking to that witness. The one who said there were stars."

He rolled his eyes.

"Move along, sir."

"I know someone who might be able to help, should you need it." He paused. "And soon you will."

Lestrade humoured him, "Oh, really? And who might that be?"

The man looked him dead in the eye. "The Doctor."

"Who?"

"You will know her."

He passed along. He flirtatiously good morning'd almost every single officer of any gender in his sight as he walked away. Lestrade watched him go.

"Is there something in the water," he muttered, "or is everyone a nutter here?"

His phone vibrated.

Lestrade checked.

_John Watson._

He picked up.

Immediately, he said: "I don't want to deal with Sherlock."

"Believe me, I know. Lestrade, something weird just happened in the flat."

"How weird?"  _Try me._

"Two women broke in. In ways that make me sound like an oddball if I say it out loud."

"Go on."

"One crashed through the window. And we're not on the first floor."

Lestrade frowned.

"That sounds barmy but, okay, I'll come around soon to take a statement for breaking and entry."

"Also -"

"Yeah?"

"The other one entered through ..." He heard John hesitate. Lestrade sensed something was wrong; he held his breath. "Our door."

"Door."

"Door. Y-Yeah ..."

Lestrade sighed. _Making me fear for nothing ..._

"They had weird names," John went on.

"Like 'Sherlock'?"

John anxiously chuckled.

"No, no," he said. "Like ... like 'The Doctor'."

_'You will know her.'_

For a moment, Lestrade allowed himself to be gullible and felt shivers. He quickly shook it off.

"Hasn't she got a normal name?" he demanded.

"She didn't give one. Neither did her friend. 'The Master', she calls herself." John hesitated again. His story was crumbling more into make-believe with each word. Yet the concept of The Doctor's name coincidentally returning in a matter of moments pursued Lestrade, no matter how many times he tried to block it out. "Can you do me a favour and - whenever you have time - to run both pseudonyms through your database? Maybe they're like criminals, or something ... They did break in."

Lestrade's heart loop-de-loop'd in fear and irritation at the thought of coming into proximity with Sherlock.

"All right, I'll see what I can do."

 


	5. they think it's a sink-hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry for the late update!) 
> 
> In which the Doctor and the Master arrive at U.N.I.T.

_U.N.I.T. London Base, 0930_

 

The radio scratched. “Jones? Jones? Over.”

Marching through the corridors full of people in army gear and lab coats, Martha answered, “Come in. Over.”

“Wormhole. Get over to London Road, Newham. Stewart’s there. Fast. Over.”

“Copy, over.”

“Affirm its presence and origin, speak to witnesses. Public thinks it’s a sink-hole. Keep with that. Over and out.”

She began sprinting. Martha rushed out through the south entrance, to which the vehicles station was nearest. She looked at her watch. _0931._ She wondered how much time has been wasted already. U.N.I.T. cannot be everywhere all at once. How much time was spent for the people at the top of the New Scotland Yard to contact the Brigadier who then had to arrange for Martha's arrival. She was only freelance, but had one of the most extensive and useful experiences with time and space out of everyone there.

She passed two women who were neither in gear or coats. At that moment, Martha did not nor had time to in any way consider them.

Then suddenly:

“Martha - is that you?”

She skidded to a halt.

Martha gasped.

Something about those words captured her. Holding her breath, she turned around in high black boots towards the women.

A tall black woman with a large ginger afro and a slightly shorter Far East Asian woman with a long coat were staring at her. The latter grimaced upon seeing her face. Martha did not know why. She wrinkled her forehead in offence but left the matter alone the second after. The black woman looked, however, like she had just seen a ghost.

“Martha,” said the black woman, “Martha Jones?”

Martha frowned. “Y-Yes. Sorry, who –“

In the blink of an eye, she was almost tackled to the floor in the woman’s tight embrace.

“How long has it been?!”

“How long, uh …”

She tried to play along: she gave a smile and patted the woman on her back. To those staring around her – drivers, officials, scientists, officers, the other woman – she gave a pleading look of desperation to wrestle her out of the iron-grip.

Then the woman whispered, with deep sincerity and tighter embrace, “I missed you, Martha Jones.”

Martha opened her mouth to speak, but she could produce no words. While the way the woman did things threw her off-guard and made her want to call for aid, the _way_ she said things touched Martha. There was something _about_ her …

She whispered, faltering, understanding, recognising: “You’re not … you’re not …”

The woman let go of Martha. Gob-smacked, Martha straightened up.

She looked into the Doctor's eyes.

There was a sense of great age and familiarity in their shine.

She gasped again. Her voice was low and shaky. “You.”

The Doctor grinned.

“You’re – you’re –“

“A woman? I know!” The Doctor was trembling with excitement.

“And black!”

“I know! It’s so different!”

“And your hair! Y-You’re ginger!”

The Doctor grabbed balls of her curls. She hopped up and down.

“I know! _Finally_ , right?”

The Doctor reached back to her companion, who reluctantly froze.

Martha observed her, how she shook her head, how her whole body stiffened. “This new one’s a bit nervous,” she thought.

The Doctor began: “This is –”

“- her companion!” the Far East Asian woman blurted out.

With only a half-second but still noticeable moment of hesitation, the Doctor said, “Louise. Londoner, too.”

Martha grinned. She looked upon Louise and her heart swelled up. Young, twinkling-eyed Louise. A fresh-faced companion, no doubt.

“Hi, Louise!”

Louise glanced at her, a few beads of sweat on her forehead. She must have realised how nervous she looked and wiped her sweat clean away with her heavy sleeve. Her arms were tightly folded to shut people out. Giving Louise aid, Martha changed the conversation away from her – but the Doctor seemed to read her mind.

They said together: “Where are you rushing off to?”

Martha chuckled. Though she would never regret her decision to leave the T.A.R.D.I.S., talking to the Doctor daily was what she often missed.

The Doctor and Martha gave each other looks that urged the other to speak first.

“Wormholes,” they chanted.

They laughed. Louise looked judgemental, but Martha shrugged that off. She was most definitely new and was yet to understand the connection the Doctor and their companions would make.

With anticipation, the Doctor opened her mouth. She slowly began to move her lips. Her eyes were locked on Martha, in case there came a hattrick.

“Do you …” Martha spoke nothing. “No?” said the Doctor. She looked surprised and disappointed all at once. Martha smiled. “Okay – uh – do you know where the Brigadier is right now? It’s very important.” The Doctor leaned in and whispered, “We have … a  _Thing_.”

“Thing?”

“A Thing.” The Doctor tried to wink.

The Doctor could not wink.

“A Thing. I am meant to be meeting Stewart actually.”

The Doctor grinned. Her eyes sparked with electricity.

Martha’s heart was banging. “Are we going on an …”

It was as if the Doctor’s energy was rubbing off on her.

They leaned in so close to each other that banging heads was a real danger.

“Adventure?” Martha said. She was cautious, but only because she did not want her hopeful expectations to be crushed.

The Doctor grinned wider.

Suddenly, Louise snapped, “Oh, kiss already!”

Without skipping a beat, Martha civilly threw back, “I’m married.”

Louise would know in time the true lifeblood of what it means to be friends with the Doctor.

“Wormholes then,” said Martha, nodding. “We’ll take the car. I’ll explain what U.N.I.T. knows on the way.”

As they began jogging towards the carpark, the Doctor cheerily quipped, “Oh, I know everything.”

Martha rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”


	6. nobody called an ambulance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I'm throwing out all these chapters to make up for the month long break - coursework, sorry!)
> 
> In which Lestrade meets the T.A.R.D.I.S. crew.

The moment the police were about to leave, the military had swooped in and captured them all hostage.

“Look!” barked Lestrade at the blonde, neatly-dressed woman waving a badge around. “This is just a slight error in the road’s structure. It’s a sink-hole, that’s all! Calloway!” Calloway, though standing next to him, jerked to attention at the shrill of his voice. “ _What time is it_?”

“Uh – uh – 9:40, sir.”

“9:40!”

“In the morning –“

“ _In_ the morning!” Lestrade was fuming. “The army does not have to come around and stall the police over a sink _-hole_!” he spat.

The woman was dressed in fine military gear. She has cropped blonde hair and a pointed nose. Smoothly, she took out a tissue from her top pocket and wiped away his spit from her cheek.

“We’re going to take over this operation,” she repeated, “but we request witness statements from you and your officers and your witnesses, in turn.”

Lestrade’s fist was shaking. He saw Calloway gesture to the shock team out of the corner of his eyes, ready to give him a blanket.

“ _Me_ and my officers are going to leave and get back to our job as – you know – police! I’ve never even heard of Uniform!”

“ _U.N.I.T._ U-N-I-”

Cutting her off, Lestrade made inhuman sounds of frustration. He passively accepted the blanket. He was about ready to implode. When a horn blasted, he thought that that was his head exploding.

A small military car parked aside the police vans. Quickly out came two black women, one in uniform and one in a jacket, alongside a Far East Asian woman in a coat. The coat fearfully reminded him of Sherlock. The blonde military woman recognised them.

“Jones!”

They marched up and saluted at each other. Lestrade looked cautiously on with his arms folded. Calloway’s eyes were lit with curiosity.

“Ma’am,” began the one called Jones, “this is the Doctor.”

She looked at the ‘doctor’ – which confused Lestrade because nobody called an ambulance over a sink-hole - up and down.

“My, you’re a woman now! Good to see you, doc- oh!”

The doctor had engulfed her in a bear-hug. She awkwardly patted the doctor’s back until she let go. Lestrade was thankful he would never have to endure anyone as enthusiastic as her. Aside from Sherlock. He shivered. 

“It’s good to see you, Stewart.”

Calloway then muttered to him: “Did you even read her name tag? I didn’t know she was called Stewart.”

“She was shoving it in everyone’s faces so quickly that I could only see it in a blur.”

Stewart said: “And who’s this?”

“Louise.”

Louise answered Stewart’s handshake frigidly.

“Torchwood gave us the tip,” Stewart explained.

Lestrade whispered to Calloway, “Torchwood?”

She shrugged.

“Ah, so Jack beat us to it?” said the doctor.

“Jack did.”

Lestrade looked up. The American was back, having replied to the question. He tapped the doctor’s shoulder, who jumped, spun around, and happily cried out. Her enthusiasm was sickening.

As the American and the doctor embraced, Lestrade bluntly stated, “Torchwood.”

Stewart blinked. She looked to the doctor.

“Is there any way you could …?”

“Wipe out his memory?” finished the doctor.

Calloway looked shocked. Lestrade laughed. “What?”

The doctor added, “Probably. Time’s crazy like that.”

He stabbed at them all with a pointed finger. “You’re all bonkers and _you_ ’re a doctor.”

Wagging her finger back, the doctor quipped, “ _The_ Doctor.”

“Lestrade,” Stewart stepped in, “is there a place where we can all talk privately?”


	7. milkshakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John leaves for a second time to breakfast.

Almost as if he was addicted, Sherlock was strapped to his computer and if Mrs. Hudson or John tried to encourage him away, he snapped at them like a hound.

John sat on his armchair. He stared at the infuriatingly lack of results on his phone and complained, “I’m getting nowhere, Sherlock. What about you?”

Sherlock did not answer. His eyes were locked in place, staring fixedly downwards at the tilted-back screen that he hunched over. Mrs. Hudson sat down on a fine chair. She sighed at the look of him.

“All of this for some women you met for a few minutes!” she said, throwing up her arms.

John checked the time on his phone. _Ten to ten._ His stomach grumbled again.

“Oh, go get some breakfast, John!”

John dearly wanted to. He looked over at Sherlock. He hoped his friend was getting better luck than he was.

“Care to join, Mrs. Hudson?”

“I would, but somebody has to take care of –” She jabbed her thumb over to Sherlock. He did not notice that as he rapidly clacked his bony fingers on the keyboard, but John was sure he would appreciate it if somebody was there to keep him from exploding. The straight line his lips were making as they intensely pressed together suggested he was growing increasingly frustrated, which meant a mushroom cloud was near.

John set off. Perhaps fresh air and a belly full of food would rejuvenate his mind and help him spread out to further resources aside from Google and the New Scotland Yard. The daylight was slowly brightening up, but the air still stank of fumes and the Londoners were still irritatingly loud. He thought of a bagel, with jam. Perhaps a hot chocolate. With marshmallows. And a coffee. Perhaps he could also buy a new book, to cheer his morning up –

The road erupted.

Cars skidded and crashed into buildings. Smoke and fire burst out of the tarmac. John felt its searing heat. He ducked into an alleyway. He dared not look, but the smoke’s fog and the fire’s heat would have blinded him anyway. He could only hear the raging sounds. Of a monster. Something between the loudest bear’s growl and the fiercest lion’s roar. His blood ran cold - the cry was so _familiar_. People screamed and leapt out of their cars and hurried into the alleys and ran past him. The earth shook under his feet. He could hear the wheels of the alley-bins squeaking and rolling about. Several fell over with a crash. The shaking and roaring lasted several minutes. His heart was in his throat. He did not know what to do.

Suddenly – silence. Was the monster gone? His eyes flashed back to this morning. Was it the same thing?

His phone vibrated.

With smoke around him still, he could not see past his hand and blindly felt for his phone. His fingers had previously memorised where the answer icon was and tapped it.

John could barely breathe. He could hardly whisper. “H-Hello?”

It was Sherlock. He sighed with relief.

“Sherlock -!”

“What do cows produce in an earthquake?”

“Sherlock, don’t –”

“Milkshakes.”

“Sherlock, there was a thing!”

“A what?”

“I -”

John stopped. Out of the smoke shone a small, bright, green light.


	8. teleporting into ice cream trucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the crew learn about the Doctor's less cheery side.

If the group wanted to be private when Lestrade brought them behind a van, there was no way no one was going to be curious about there being more than one person in military uniforms alongside another person in a ginger afro laughing so loudly that even birds stopped flying to give her attention.

“That’s so funny!” the doctor cried, tears streaming.

The American grinned. “It’s all true, I teleported right into an ice cream truck, spooked the seller so much that he fled - and took over!”

“I can definitely see that happening,” grinned Martha.

Louise - being a strange girl - lingered a distance away that was short enough to remain in earshot but long enough to give her the appearance of ‘cool’. Calloway jotted down notes. Stewart coughed into her hands. The fun-and-games stopped.

“Lestrade,” Stewart told him, placing her hands together, “I will ask you for the last time. Please give us permission to collect statements.”

“No.”

“Very well.” She paused in thought for a moment. “They are wormholes.”

Lestrade blinked. Calloway stopped dead.

“Wormholes.”

The doctor peered over behind her.

She said, “She’s not lying.”

“Doctor,” said Stewart, “please.”

The doctor held up her hands and stepped back. She mimed a zipping action at her lips. Then, behind Stewart’s back, she shared a grin with the American.

“Wormholes,” repeated Lestrade.

“I can take you to our top scientists right now. It is of utmost importance that we receive every tit-bit of information, no matter how unimportant any detail might seem. We know that they will appear around the city sporadically and yet structurally in accordance with a map.”

“Map. For wormholes.”

“Yes. You would need this information to race the wormholes to the locations in the city in which they will appear. We are happy to share this with you in exchange for the statements.”

“You’re willing to hold the city hostage if we do not give you the statements.”

"We will still protect the city. But we need the police to deal with public relations."

The doctor coughed into her hand.

Without looking at her, Stewart sharply said, “Doctor, not now.”

“Yes, however –”

“Doctor, let U.N.I.T. lead.”

“Ideally no –”

“Doctor.”

The doctor frowned. She raised her voice in an attempt to take charge: “Well, you might want to know that a wormhole has opened up now!”

Everyone but Lestrade and Calloway – the only sane people in his view – stopped and looked at her.

The doctor put her hands on her hips and said, “Check the map. And, Stewart, when I first got my hands on the map, I made the point to always memorise the next few locations in case something should ever happen to it. I reckon you should do the same. Then you would know what's going to happen beforehand without even looking at it."

Stewart was quietly stumped for a moment.

Then she turned red.

Lestrade could almost reach out and grasp the thick tension in the silence.

“You mean to tell me,” said Stewart in a low voice with trembling hands, “that you have been withholding this information and that a wormhole has opened up right this moment and is causing unknown havoc?”

Jaws hanging down, Martha and the American looked shocked. Louise in the background nodded, appearing impressed. From her mixed expression, Calloway seemed like she did not know whether to burst into laughter or look as equally dumbfounded as the rest. Lestrade was bored of all of this rubbish.

Coolly, the doctor glared back. “I suppose we best get back in the car then.”


	9. monsters and motherships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets the Doctor again. Kinda.

“Who are you?” John asked the green light.

The green light swung around to him in response. Now that it was targeting him, it seemed to become brighter and bigger. He shielded his eyes.

As the smoke began to disperse and the air became clearer, he recognised her. The ginger afro woman.

She slotted the pen-like tool that gave off the green light into her bra. She narrowed her eyes on him. Something was different about her now. There was a more steel look in her dark eyes. Her brow was furrowed. Her hands were clenched into fists. The glee and humour and foolhardiness was gone.

She answered: “I’m no one.”

“Were you looking for something?” he asked. “With that light. It’s like a torch, right?”

“It’s lots of things.”

“Oh, hello, Madame Vague,” he thought. He was too spooked to start a fight, though, and kept his cool and did not frown at her. “What was that?” he asked aloud.

She looked across to the street. John had not peered around the corner of the building yet. He peeked out of the alley, and saw practically the ruins of a bombed street. The ground was ripped up with blocks of torn concrete laying about in the spots that they were flung too. The dead lay crumbled like thrown-away paper. Sirens rang in the still air. Aside from that, London was as quiet as the grave. It was as though the entire city was in shock. The street seemed like a whole other world to that he walked through only moments before.

He shook hard.

“I won’t lie,” said she bluntly, “it is not good.”

“Clearly,” he whispered in disbelief. “Why don’t you recognise me? Even for a few minutes, we’ve met. My flat is a wreck because of you and your friend. Surely you can let me in on what’s going on. London is my home and I deserve to know what's happening to it.”

She looked stunned.

Hanging her head, she muttered in a serious tone, “Oh golly. What have I done to myself? I was tracking the … yes, I was tracking it …” She raised her voice. “Did anything like this happen, around the time we met?”

John stitched his brow.

“Well, you would know.”

“But did anything happen?”

“Well – yes! Something, uh,” he faltered; it was ridiculous - and he had told Lestrade the woman had come out of the door in order for the whole situation to sound less stupid - but true, and the street had exploded, and people were dead and hurt, “something came out of our fridge.”

“A portal!” she gasped. “Is it changing it up notches?” Quickly, she scanned the street. She appeared to suffer no distress nor be distracted by the fatalities. “It must be!” She seemed to be talking to herself. “The first tries mustn’t had accomplished the aim of getting through, so they're upping the game! Yes! Yes! Oh, golly! Wait –" Her hands sped around her body, patting pockets and checking her socks and shoes and hair. “Where’s the map? Oh! I have it!”

She did not take a map out of anywhere. Instead, she looked frustrated.

“I’m confused,” John said, “do you have it?”

“I do!” she grunted, and folded her arms.

There was a pause.

“… Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“So where is it?”

“With me!”

“Then why are you getting upset?”

“Because I have it!”

“Clearly, you don’t.”

“ _Clearly_ , I do!”

Getting annoyed, he repeated, “Then _why_ are you getting upset?!”

“Because I have it!” she yelled back, shaking her fists. Then, she stepped back and, closing her eyes, took in a deep breath. That did not seem to work. She threw her hands up into the air: “Earthlings!” Right after, she took a second deep breath and returned to her place. She offered John a hand to help him up, which he accepted as a token of peace. He hoped. People were dead. This was indeed frustrating.

She said, “I diverged from the Doctor as an exaggeration of her darker life force in the hopes of becoming the one who will defeat her now that the Master has made a momentary truce with her. Monsters of the Witch are coming through portals throughout London, which we have a map to track. I only memorised a few places ahead – like her. Clearly, I’ve beaten her to it. I teleported to Earth from a mothership several lightyears away. London is being invaded. (For the billionth time.) The monsters will keep on attacking through portals until they have successfully reached through the vortex that has teleported myself and my allies to here. I do not know why they are unsuccessful, but this seems to be buying us time to figure out how to close off the gates to London. The monsters will continue to become more aggressive with each try. I do not know how much time we have. Any questions?”

John stared.

Her words had spewed out like a waterfall that had flown into his head and scrambled themselves about with only something about monsters and motherships and a vortex staying.

“Are you pulling my leg?”


	10. kraken-esque

“Not our division.”

It was Lestrade’s go-to argument. Stewart finished the statements matter. The last thing Calloway and Lestrade saw of her was the image of the woman fuming and screeching at the doctor-person as their party drove away. Calloway found herself wondering, “Was this talk of wormholes even a _doctor_ ’s division? What sort of doctor was she?”

“Calloway, get all of this typed up!” he had ordered, and there she was, the only one in her office who was clacking on a keyboard. Some co-workers were laughing outside. She had three grey walls with a single glass one facing the hallway. Though the glass was soundproof, the muffled dints of her co-workers squawking and gossiping at the water dispenser were banging in her heads. It was like sound was a power-drill that had started on her skull. The glass came with benefits and disadvantages: it allowed her and her co-workers to spy on each other as they peeked into each other’s offices. It also allowed the manager to keep an eye on whoever was doing their work - and whoever was looking down at their lap, conspicuously engrossed with Angry Birds on their mobile.

She sipped at coffee – and grimaced. Lukewarm.

Calloway stopped typing and read over what she put.

“Sinkhole … witness in distress …” she murmured. “... Wrmho- whoops, typo – ‘ _worm_ hole’ …” Blank-faced she stared at the word. Habitually, she sipped her coffee again. Calloway grimaced. She forgot it was lukewarm.

She hummed quietly to Beyoncé on the portable radio that she kept in her office. She shared it was Molly Fletcher, who was off that day. She thought about London outside, all around her. She wondered what state of emergency there was that had Stewart fretting over. 

She casually scanned her desk, laying her eyes and focusing on the picture of her and her girlfriend at Alton Towers. A selfie that she printed off. It was cute, but wonky. Quinta could never take a selfie right. Calloway with her braids and Quinta with her perm. Repeatedly from time to time Calloway stopped to look at it and fall for her lover’s image all over again. Quinta would be either walking their fur-ball Westie, Dee, or scrolling on the Internet on her search for jobs since she was made redundant. Calloway felt great weight on her shoulders from that and from the paperwork and from today and -

The radio became fuzzy. Calloway broke out of her typing. With her hand balled in a fist, she thumped the top of the machine. Static.

She rolled her eyes. “Piece of sh-!”

Even through the soundproof glass, she heard the muffled screams of some unearthly creature.

An immense bright white light as if she was looking into the sun shone through the corridor. Calloway’s eyes clenched shut. She opened them. The light was gone. But the screaming was there. She grabbed her ears. She froze in her seat. Her co-workers scattered like sheep.

Suddenly, that woman – the woman from before – the doctor-woman – jumped out of the bright light. She was tucked into a ball as she rolled through the air and landed on the carpet. Following behind out of the same spot were great big tentacles funnelling through the air after her. They waved around, trying to grab something.  One hit the glass. The glass shattered. Immediately the screams were louder - as if it had cut itself - as if it was in pain. 

The doctor rolled backwards on the ground. For a moment she looked panicked. Then she hopped up and extended her arm out. In her hands was a metal instrument. She pointed it straight at the tentacles.

“Be gone, foul beast!” she cried with a great amount of dramatic gravitas as if she were in a Shakespearean play.

At the end of the instrument, it glowed. It made a whirring sound.

The monster squealed. The tentacles flopped to the floor. The floor shook.

Moments after, the tentacles withdrew and its screaming was gone. In the end all that was left was the shattered glass and a silent, monster-less corridor.

Calloway slowly rose from her chair. She was not hurt, but she was in shock. Her hands were still clutching her ears. The woman looked cross, staring at the spot where the light had shone and the tentacles had thrown themselves out of. 

Then, the woman looked happy again. She spotted Calloway staring, and waved.

“Hi there!” she said.

Weakly, she smiled back. “H-Hi …”

“It's you! Mind if I come in?”

Calloway gave a slight nod.

The glass wall was gone, but the woman still opened Calloway's mostly unscathed door and entered. Tidily, she closed it behind her. 

“Golly, sorry I look a mess,” she told Calloway, hopping over glass-pieces “it’s been a bit hectic this morning.”

“I – I see.” Calloway paused. “Would you like a cuppa?”

“A cuppa what?”

“Tea.”

“Oh, yes please!”

Even as Calloway sipped at some post-stress tea in the staff kitchen, she still trembled.

“You're from before, the –“

“The Doctor,yes.”

“Sorry, Doctor who?”

The Doctor grinned. “You just did the thing!”

“What thing?”

The Doctor pulled an exaggerated frown full of concern and curiosity that Calloway could only imagine was meant to imitate hers. “'Doctor who’? I love that thing! Sounds cool. Sounds mysterious.”

Calloway gave a meek, polite chuckle. “Don’t you have a name?”

“I sometimes go by John Smith.”

“Isn’t that a boy’s name?”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Here – a-anyway.”

“John Smith’s practical, reusable, it’s like a constant in an otherwise changing existence,” said the Doctor. “Think I’ll keep it. But I'm just 'the Doctor'. Only 'the Doctor'.”

"Of medicine?"

"Of everything."

Calloway fidgeted with her mug- then spotted the wall-clock. “It’s only ten! Why are you here? Aren’t you meant to be with the others?” She frowned. “What did I even see?” she thought aloud. It was something so supernatural in the corridor, and now here they were, drinking something as mundane as a cup of tea.

The Doctor finished hers and put it down. She seemed to think for a moment, then with a short nod simply said: “Aliens.”

“Aliens.”

“Aliens. Yes.”

_“... Aliens.”_

“Aliens!”

Calloway blinked. She wondered if there was something in her breakfast that morning. The Doctor was smiling at her.

“What’s your name?” she asked, suddenly moving on. The conversation sped so fast that Calloway was pushed along with it. Distracted, her mind was on the image of the tentacles and the ‘alien’ word.

“K-Kelly.”

“Lovely to meet you, Kelly. Where are you from?”

“H-Here.”

“You live in a – what is this place?”

“Police station.”

“Oh, police station!” Frowning, she paused. “Kelly,” said she, “London is in danger. Sites need to be secured very quickly.”

“What do you mean?”

“This alien – and it’s only one – keeps popping up at co-ordinates, some that I have memorised as you know. But today … people got hurt. People need to be protected. Stewart and Lestrade need to work better together to secure sites and clear the areas of citizens – _today_!”

“Why me?”

“Because you seem good – and brave. I mean," the Doctor waved her hand to ghostly silent devastation around them, "you didn’t run.”

Admittedly, Kelly did not run because she was frozen to the spot and soiling herself. ‘Brave’ sounded a more presentable word for it, though.

“You also seemed to work well with Lestrade. I – though we sometimes disagree – am Stewart’s long-term ally. I’ve worked with her institution on several occasions. I know them. But Stewart and Lestrade need a working relationship. The citizens know the police - they trust in them - while Stewart and I can handle the alien.”

Kelly’s brow wrinkled. She gaped like a fish. “This is so … _crazy_! Aliens! They exist! Who knew?! Where did this alien come from?”

The Doctor sipped at her tea as she mulled over her thoughts. She sighed, rubbing her brow, “Why are Earthlings so ... innocent!” She folded her hands together and leaned forward. “So, there’s lots of races out there. Each with their own planets and moons and star systems and histories and politics and lives, with half or even most of them not knowing each other is existing. Some question the existence of other universe-dwellers like Earthlings do, but some have actually accessed other worlds and galaxies. Like the Varmtha.”

Kelly slowly repeated, for herself more than the Doctor, “ _Varmtha._ ” It was such a ludicrous word that carried such weight with the way the Doctor said it. Her mind was too boggled, too shaken to wholly comprehend the word 'alien' still. Before, aliens to her meant E.T. and now they were ... _monsters._

“Fun fact!" said the Doctor, wagging her finger. "They inspired the kraken.”

“Nice … to know …” The tentacles and screaming, now that she thought about it, seemed kraken-esque.

“Someone – a witch - is using one to invade your planet – through London. As per.”

“As per?”

“London’s a popular destination. Not for holidaying – for destroying.”

“Oh.” She thought, “And a witch … is doing … this."

The Doctor fidgeted with her mug. She rolled it in between her palms, mulling something over as she looked down. Something about the steely look in her eyes made Kelly feel nauseous.

After an elongated pause, the Doctor said, “I’m going to close the portal, capture the witch and slay the monster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if so far there are plot holes or inconsistencies, please let me know, I am only human x

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me if my lack of research shows wooooo


End file.
